


Alouette

by Terminallydepraved



Series: DBH: Mafia [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Begging, Cabaret Singer!Connor, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mean!Hank, Mob boss!Hank, Trans!Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: Hearing Connor sing awoke something in Hank's chest. Something hot. Something unexpected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so here is my obligatory mob boss!hank fic since everyone on twitter is losing their shit over that rn. i really wanna do more chapters of this as a sorta casual smutty thing, so expect updates (2-3) at some point? I will have to do some thinking on it, but this wont be long and its mostly to get my need for a mean dirty old man hank outta my system before i fucking combust. enjoy!

The club was low-lit, nearly empty, and smoky in a way that stuck in the back of Hank’s throat as soon as he stepped through the door. Not a great first impression, he thought, glancing around the place. He’d had this club on his list for years now, from back when his father still ran the gang. Back in those days he’d walk the streets, ducking in to make sure everything was fine, that the customers were happy, smiling, and content. 

It was an important thing, checking things like that. Happy customers meant more money for the club. More money for the club meant more money for the gang— Protection didn’t come cheap these days, and Hank didn’t like having to teach people that the hard way. 

Looking at this place now, Hank knew it wasn’t the same as it had been ten years ago. There weren’t customers filling the tables. There weren’t bustling waiters and waitresses filling drinks, and there certainly wasn’t any dancing. Hank let out a sigh and walked a little further inside, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. He was in for a rough conversation today. Great. 

Times really had changed. 

The man of the hour was just ahead, already waiting at a table for Hank to arrive. Hank took his time sauntering over, shrugging out of his jacket as he went until he was just in his shirtsleeves and suspenders. He tossed the jacket over the back of his chair, nodding to the club owner, Martin Malone, before sitting down across from him. 

Martin made a good show of smiling in welcome, but Hank didn’t need to look closely to see that the man was shaking like he’d been doused in ice water and left out in the winter cold. This was going to be a rough one, Hank could already tell. 

“Hey there, Mr. Anderson,” Martin tried, pitching his voice up an octave in an effort to sound peppy when it only made him come off as strained. “Can I get you a drink? Maybe something to eat? Or how about a cigar?” 

Hank shook his head. He’d been trying to cut back these days, and even if he wasn’t it was never a good idea to mix drinking or niceties with business. They weren’t friends, no matter how much Martin was trying to push the idea. “Nah,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest. “Let’s just chat. And it’s Hank, alright? Our dads called each other Mister. None of that shit for me.”

Martin physically deflated. He slumped into his chair and nodded, eyes averted like a kicked dog. Hank let out a tight breath and rolled his eyes at that. A little pride in the face of adversity would go a long way in winning a person over. Apparently Martin didn’t feel the same. 

“You know why I’m here, right?” Hank began. 

Martin nodded. He didn’t lift his head. 

“Do you have good news for me?” Hank asked next.

A shake of the head this time. Figured. Hank sighed, letting his gaze wander around the club. “Pretty empty in here today,” he observed. “Not a promising sight on a Saturday night, Martin.”

“I know.” Martin slowly lifted his head. “Things have been rough since Dad retired. I’m just—”

“Don’t give me the sob story, Martin,” Hank said without bothering to look at the man. “We both know you ran this place into the ground the second you got your hands on the reins. I’ve seen your books. A successful club doesn’t die on it’s own. You know why I’m here, and you know how you got to this point.”

When silence answered him, Hank finally looked at the man in the chair opposite of him. Martin had his shoulders up near his ears like a child in the middle of receiving a scolding. His eyes were locked on the table top, his body wound as tight as a spring. God, it was pathetic. Hank let out a low sigh and lifted his hand to rub at his eyes. This part of the job was never fun. It was like kicking a dog. Hank  _ liked  _ dogs. 

“You owe me half a million dollars, Martin,” Hank said without preamble. Martin flinched as if he’d been shot. “What are we going to do about that?”

It was clear Martin wasn’t about to offer up good ideas. He sat there with his mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyes bugging out and sweat collecting on his upper lip. Hank bounced his knee beneath the table, movement off by the main stage catching his eye. They narrowed a moment later when someone wandered across the stage, lithe and graceful as he stood in front of a lone microphone and gestured towards a far corner that he was ready to begin. 

What little chatter there was in the club died as a single spotlight buzzed to light, illuminating the figure in dull, yellow light. An old sound system crackled to life. Some soft, jazzy ballad began to play. 

“I know there’s some sort of agreement we can come to.”

Hank glanced at Martin for a second. The singer began to sway, and Hank’s attention was stolen away just like that. “Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered anyway. He was beginning to regret not accepting a drink. His mouth was as dry as bone as he watched that slender body sway back and forth like a willow in the wind. 

There wasn’t even anything that impressive about the guy, was the thing. Hank had seen better. Hell, he’d  _ had  _ better back in the clubs he managed on the side. Sure, this one was young, with dark eyes and a beautifully tapered waist, but… 

The boy parted his lips and began to sing, and suddenly Hank couldn’t find it in himself to find a flaw. His voice was smokey, rasped like malt whiskey with a burn that lingered in the darkness behind Hank’s eyes. It wrapped around him in soft chords of shadow, viscous and smooth. Martin twitched and gestured, but Hank’s eyes didn’t leave the stage. His voice was caught in his throat, locked up tight by something indescribable. The song was low, melancholic, and woefully despondent. The singer’s pale lips brushed the old microphone with every word he sang, and when his long, slender fingers wrapped around the stand, Hank swore his heart skipped a beat. 

“I’m just asking for a little more time,” Martin tried, stuttering when Hank’s hand shot up to cut him off. 

“Shut up,” Hank muttered. “Don’t say anything.” Not until the song was done. 

Hank didn’t breathe until it ended. It took minutes. It took hours. It took an eternity and no time at all, and by the time the last warbling note bled away into the quiet of the empty club, Hank was on the edge of his seat, mind made up. He let his hand fall from the air. The singer quietly thanked the audience that didn’t even bother to clap for him, and then excused himself from the stage to disappear behind a moth-bitten curtain. 

Martin cleared his throat again. Hank slowly turned to face him once more. He’d grown pale, perspiration speckling his skin. He licked nervously at his lips, gripping his clasped hands tighter than a vice. “As I was saying,” he began slowly, almost as if waiting for Hank to cut him off again. “I just need more time.”

Business again. Hank let out a harsh breath through his nose, suddenly wishing he hadn’t come for this. “Who was that?” he asked instead, jerking his head towards the stage. “Last I heard you couldn’t afford live talent anymore.” So help him, if Martin was bringing in money off the books...

Martin glanced at the stage, eyebrows furrowed. “Who— Oh. Connor. Connor Arkay. He’s the only singer we’ve got anymore,” he mumbled, tracing shapes in the wood grain with the tip of his finger. “Kid was living on the streets. He’s got good pipes and he doesn’t ask for much, so I let him live in the back and he sings to pay the rent. He keeps the tips he gets. If he gets them.” Martin snorted ruefully. “He thinks he can make it big. Poor kid doesn’t know anything.”

Martin was definitely a fucking moron. After a performance like that, Hank couldn’t imagine him not getting tips. Hell, with a performance like that, Connor should be singing in one of the big clubs. He’d be a star at Hank’s front house. 

Hank licked at his dry lips at the thought. Hell, he’d be a star at one of the brothels he ran too. A face like that meant  _ range.  _ God, he was getting to be a dirty old man in his old age. 

“Um,” Martin went. “So, about that extension…?”

Right. That. “I could give you a decade and you wouldn’t be able to pay off the debts you’ve got on your shoulders,” Hank said flatly, drumming his fingers along a ring in the finish of the table. “We’re past the point of asking for time. It’s time you start talking alternatives, because I’m tired of waiting on  _ soon  _ to come.”

“I… All I have is this club,” Martin whispered. He propped his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. “I’ve tried everything to bring in more business. I can’t just—”

Hank spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up, then felt something warm drop into his belly like a shot of whiskey taken too fast. A pale hand reached out and settled on Martin’s shoulder. The man startled, looked up, and frowned.

“Sorry to interrupt, Martin. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” the singer said politely, his voice warm and raspy and absolutely perfect in Hank’s mind. “Do you have a minute?”

“What? Oh, God, Connor, this isn’t the time,” the man replied, pushing at the kid’s hand until it fell from his shoulder. “Why don’t you go get ready for your next set and I’ll—”

Hank held up his hand again and Martin nearly swallowed his tongue in his rush to shut up. He looked at Connor, taking in the dark shock of hair, the chocolate brown eyes. A smattering of moles and freckles dotted his face, a charming little thing Hank hadn’t noticed with him on stage. He was a little older than Hank had guessed while he was performing. Closer to thirty than twenty but with a softness in his features that would probably always scream youth. Connor fidgeted beneath his gaze and clasped his hands in front of himself. Hank… let out a breath, turning to look at the owner once more. 

“I want him.”

Martin’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

Hank grinned. “I said,” he repeated, jerking his thumb at Connor for good measure, “I want him. You’ve got him on a contract right? I want it.”

Connor’s eyes widened just a little. For the most part, he didn’t react. His fingers laced together in front of himself and he licked at his pretty pink lips. He turned woodenly towards his boss. “Martin… Who is this?” he asked quietly. 

Martin stared woodenly at Hank. “He’s… a very important person around here, Connor,” he croaked. 

Hank held out his hand with a smile. “Hank Anderson,” he said, savoring the way Connor visibly startled at that. “Your boss owes me a lot of money. I’ve come to collect.”

Connor stared at Hank’s outstretched hand, taking it when Martin nudged him roughly in the side. Hank’s brow rose; Connor had a firm grip. His hand was almost criminally soft. Fuck. He turned towards Martin and only let go of Connor’s hand when the boy tugged it away. “So, what’ll it be? His contract or your club?”

“Martin,” Connor whispered. 

Martin didn’t even look Connor’s way. “His contract,” he practically spat, pushing his seat away from the table as quickly as he possibly could. “I’ll go get it. Just wait here.”

“Martin!” Connor cried out as Martin charged past him towards the back office. He curled his hands into fists at his side, body tense and eyes wide. A pronounced tremble rippled through his body. He was shaking. God, he was cute. 

“Y’know,” Hank offered, startling a jolt out of Connor, “there’s no need to be so nervous. I don’t bite.” 

Connor slowly turned his head to look at him. He was pale— Oh, then pink. Bright, embarrassing pink. “I know that,” he whispered, and all at once Hank’s mind was filled with thoughts, visions, and ideas. 

Those pink lips wrapped around his cock. Those slender hands pumping him up and down in the back of the limousine still parked just outside the club. Long, lithe legs wrapped around his waist, that swan-like neck thrown back as this crooner sung a different kind of song in the darkness of Hank’s bedroom. 

“Here it is,” Martin practically yelled, rushing towards them from across the room. A flimsy piece of paper was clutched in his hand. Half a million dollars, that paper was worth. Connor stood stock still, in shock of how easily his body could be bartered when he’d signed away his rights all for the chance of making in big on that stage. 

Hank pushed the chair out from beneath the table and stood up. He towered over Connor, and the boy gulped as he let his eyes follow Hank all the way up. He made a show of putting on his suit jacket, and by the time he was done, Martin was holding out the paper. Hank plucked it from his hand, folded it, then slipped it into his inner jacket pocket. He never once broke eye contact with the singer trembling in his shadow. 

“What on earth is going on?” he asked, flinching when Hank took him by the wrist and tugged him towards the front door. “Martin? Martin, what did you just do?”

“He sold you, kid,” Hank said, letting go of his wrist to wrap his hand around the back of Connor’s delicate neck instead. He leaned down, putting his mouth to his ear. “You’re all mine now.”

Connor’s ears burned a brilliant red. He stiffened, then shivered, nearly tripping over his own feet. He didn’t fight Hank’s hand. He went loose beneath it, not even an ounce of fight to be seen. 

Hank beamed. 

This was going to be  _ fun.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! woot! ill be finishing this fic entirely after new years, so enjoy your holidays and check back in later for more!

“This’ll be your room,” Hank announced, watching the kid take in the mansion around him. “Bathroom is through that door over there, and it should have everything you’ll need for the most part.” Minus clothes. They’d have to get him some more of those soon, but Hank had ideas for that already. Lots of ideas. 

Connor didn’t say anything to the room or Hank, just looked around with his big, wide eyes. He probably had his own ideas going through his head. Hank stood in the doorway of the guest room, watching him think, watching him linger. Connor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes drifting to Hank and then away in short, sporadic bursts. It was clear Connor didn’t want to come any closer if it meant sharing an entryway with him. Hank rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. That was going to need to be worked on. 

“Connor?”

The kid startled. He had his arms wrapped around himself tight. He carefully turned himself to look at Hank instead of the fancy rug beneath his feet. 

Hank raised a brow. “You gonna go in?”

Connor colored. His lips twisted, his mouth opening to worry the bottom one between his teeth. A short nod. Then… nothing. 

This time, Hank snorted. He pushed off the door frame and entered the room himself. “Then come on,” he said, not bothering to look behind him. Might just scare Connor off for good if he looked at him too closely. “It’s a nice place. I think you’ll like it.”

And it was a nice place. Real nice. Had a few windows, a queen sized bed with a fancy bedspread on it that he’d had one of the maids pick out. Big, spacious, the place wasn’t the sort of guest room you gave to a guest you wanted to encourage into making it a short stay; Connor was gonna be here for awhile if Hank had any say in it—which he did—and first step to making it comfortable for the both of them was to make sure he treated the kid right. Better than Martin had, simple as that was to manage. 

“Wow,” he heard whispered behind him. Hank turned a little, looking over his shoulder. Connor was looking around the place with wide eyes, his arms loosening around his middle. He kept moving as he looked, bypassing Hank without issue to look out the far window. 

“Good view?” Hank asked, peering over Connor’s head. They overlooked the city pretty well from here, the skyline just a jagged dark outline against the bright, color-struck backsplash of the setting sun. It was the sort of view you had to dish out money to see. For some poor city kid like Connor, he’d probably never seen anything like it before. 

The arms tightened around Connor’s stomach once more. He glanced over his shoulder at Hank, then looked to the floor, cheeks a little pale. “Good for a jail cell,” he muttered. 

“Oh, is that so?” Hank rested his hands on his hips, shaking his head. Fuckin’ brat was what he’d got from that bar, wasn’t it? 

Connor stiffened. He faced forward, the tips of his ears flushing red. Embarrassment? Anger? It was hard to tell with his back to Hank, and all of them could be possible. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

Connor shook his head slowly. His fingers curled tightly around the fabric covering his upper arms. He peeked over his shoulder… then went pale when he saw Hank was coming towards him. 

“Let me give you a formal introduction,” Hank said, sidling up beside Connor until they shared the view side by side. Connor immediately tried to take a step away, but Hank didn’t let him. He clapped his hand down on the boy’s thin shoulder, pulling him flush against his side until there wasn’t an inch between them. “My name is Hank Anderson. From  _ that  _ Anderson family. You see that city out there?”

He looked at Connor until the kid nodded his head. Hank smiled. “I run that. All of it. The fancy bits, the shitty bits, that club I found you in… All mine.” 

It was pretty cute how he could feel Connor stiffen against his side. Hank went on, “Now, normally that doesn’t mean I own everything in those places too. But, in your case… Martin was right when he told you I was an important person.” He moved his mouth a little closer to Connor’s ear. The kid sucked in a harsh breath when he let his beard brush against him. “It’s only a jail cell if you wanna see it that way. I could make you famous, kid. I can make the world see you as the star you are—” 

Connor twisted beneath his arm and pushed against Hank’s side, tearing himself away. He backed up towards the bed, face on fire and his hands at his side, curled into fists. “You’re a crook is what you are,” he snapped. “A criminal.” 

Hank couldn’t help but laugh. It was like watching a puppy bark at a Saint Bernard. He took a step closer and raised a brow when Connor wilted just like that, backing up with an almost panicked air. He looked around, saw he’d boxed himself in by moving towards the bed, and froze in place with the backs of his knees pressed against the edge of the mattress. 

Hank looked down at Connor, noting how the boy trembled. Hell, he hadn’t stopped shaking since they got out of the limo, eyes as wide as saucers and his breath sharp and rushed. He let out a sigh. “I’m not gonna gut you for talking back to me,” he murmured, taking Connor by the chin to make sure he looked at him this time. No more avoiding his eyes. Hank drew his chin up, baring the slender length of Connor’s pretty throat. “I paid half a million dollars for you, kid. I don’t plan on breaking you for something like that.”

Connor’s adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. His dark brown eyes practically glistened, and he didn’t dare to move his head away from Hank’s hold. God, that did something to Hank. There was promise in this, that was for sure. He’d noticed it before in the club the second he put his hand on the back of Connor’s neck. The kid may not know it yet himself, but he was just begging for a firm hand to get him where he wanted to go. 

Hank drew his thumb over the soft, petal-pink slash of Connor’s lips, tugging down on the bottom one until the boy opened his mouth the barest hint of an inch. He’d get him there, Hank decided. He’d get him there and far beyond it too. 

“Mr. Anderson?” Connor practically whimpered, the whites of his eyes warring it out with the sweet brown of his irises. The words were slurred. God, Hank wanted to hear him say his name like that again, louder. 

“It’s Hank,” he said, giving into the urge to press the pad of his thumb past Connor’s lips until it rested on the flat of his tongue. “I want you to call me Hank, Connor.”

Two things happened next, one right after the other and too fast for Hank to do more than widen his eyes in surprise. The first—and perhaps the most surprising—was Connor closing his eyes and  _ sucking.  _ Not much, not harshly, barely even there. Just a gentle rush of suction around the tip of Hank’s thumb before it ended completely. 

_ Oh,  _ Hank thought. That was certainly something. 

Just a split second later was Connor  _ realizing  _ what he’d just done and reeling backwards, the backs of his knees catching on the edge of the bed. It sent him sprawling back, falling onto the mattress with a stifled grunt that went straight to the corner of Hank’s mind already filled with thoughts of what Connor might sound like sans a few more clothes. 

He sounded good, Hank noted, already knowing he would. No one with a voice like that could sound bad in bed. 

“I just… I didn’t—” Connor practically squeaked, lifting himself onto his hands and crawling over the bed until he was as far from Hank as he could get short of toppling over the edge and scuttling beneath it. His chest rose and fell rabbit fast, fingers knotted in the bedding so tightly that his knuckles bled white. Connor bit down hard on his bottom lip. He looked at the far wall. His knees, Hank noticed, were firmly pressed together. Cute. 

“Connor.” 

Connor was shaking again. His cheeks were stained a bright rosy red. 

_ “Connor,”  _ Hank repeated, and that got the kid’s attention. Connor startled a little, lifting his head to look at Hank properly. 

“Y-Yes, sir?” 

Hank raised a brow. Connor flushed a darker red. He ducked his head. “Hank,” he corrected, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Yes, Hank?”

“Get settled in,” he said with a smile, turning towards the door. “Come find me after. I’ve got some stuff I wanna show you.”

He’d teased him enough for the moment anyway. 

—

Connor took about three hours to rally after the little bedroom incident. Hank hadn’t minded the wait; he always had too much work to be done at any given moment, so he busied himself with that while Connor did whatever he needed to do to get the balls to come out and face him. Signing shit and reviewing the accounts for the myriad clubs and casinos he ran. Boring book work that kept the places running. It had to be done, dull as it was, and Hank put himself into it as much as he could manage when he knew just a few floors above him sat a gorgeous piece of ass he could say he owned as much as any of the clubs he managed on paper. 

The sun had set by then, darkness overtaking the room and Hank both. He turned on the lamps and pulled back the curtains he usually drew during the day. The city outside was glistening like the pearls on Hank’s cufflinks, twinkling like the stars they couldn’t see. Beautiful at a distance. Inspiring close up. Hank let out a sigh and smiled, turning his desk chair towards the view. 

It made the work easier, that view. He turned back to his stacks and rolled up his sleeves, diving into it with more energy than he’d had before. 

When Connor finally peeked his head through the doorway of his study, eyes downturned and posture reluctant, Hank was relieved. Relieved he wouldn’t have to keep on fucking with his work and could dedicate his attention fully to something he’d much rather be fucking with instead. He tossed aside his pen and lifted himself out of his chair, grin already in place. 

“There you are,” he called out, gesturing for Connor to come in out of the doorway. “It’s about time you showed up.”

Connor pulled a face. He looked at the room instead of Hank, taking in the fireplace in the corner and the wall length windows that made up the far wall of the study. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dingy trousers, only looking at Hank when he came to a stop in front of him. “You said to come find you,” he mumbled, only meeting his eyes for a second or two. “I’m here.”

“You are. Glad you can follow instructions. It bodes well.” Hank drew an arm behind Connor’s back and guided him towards the corner of the room he’d had set up for what came next. “Since you decided to take your sweet time, I made some calls and had some guys pick you up some things.”

“What kind of things?” Connor asked, spotting the new shopping bags tucked behind the edge of Hank’s desk. “I don’t have money.”

“Don’t worry about that anymore.” With a voice like the one he had, he’d more than make up for the cost in no time. “We’re gonna have you working soon, so it’s not an issue right now. Only thing is,” Hank said, hooking his fingers through one of the bags and pressing it to Connor’s chest, “I can’t have you working in rags. Try these on. If they don’t fit, we’ll get them tailored.” 

Connor caught the bag and looked from it to Hank. He pulled away from Hank’s hand. “I… I guess I’ll be right back,” he mumbled, turning towards the door.

“Oh, not so fast.” Hank reached out and caught him by the shoulder before he could take so much as a single step. “In here.”

There was something so fun about Connor’s reactions. Something so unfiltered and raw. His eyes went wide and his face turned a stunning shade of red. He sputtered, then clutched the bag in his arms so tightly that it crinkled. “No,” he managed to get out, shaking his head hard. “Absolutely not.”

“God, kid, you’re too much.” Hank snorted, hiding his smile behind his hand before Connor could see it for too long. “You think I’d make you strip down in front of me?” He’d admit to being a dirty old man any day of the week, but even he had his limits. He pointed at a changing screen he’d had brought in too, some fancy paper number that suited the room enough to blend in with the furnishings. “Behind there if you’re gonna be that shy about it. Promise I won’t peek.” 

Connor did a double take at the screen. He slowly relaxed his deathgrip on the bag. “Oh,” he breathed, hanging his head. That blush was back in spades. “That’s…” 

“Yeah?” Hank led. 

No answer. Connor ducked his head and stomped over to the changing screen. Hank let out a laugh and shook his head. Embarrassed him again, hadn’t he? Connor made it too easy. He put his hands on his hips and watched the kid disappear around the edge of the screen. No sense in waiting here. He headed back over to his desk, hooking his ankle over his knee. 

The room was quiet but for the soft shufflings of shifting fabric and the crinkle of the paper bag as it was relieved of its contents. Hank drummed his fingers on his desk, watching the silhouette through the thin paper screen. Connor was such a slight thing, willowy and thin. Clearly Martin hadn’t been feeding him properly. Though, given the kind of money the club was bringing in, how could he? Connor got to keep his tips. That probably didn’t give him much spending money, especially if he wanted to save some for a rainy day. 

“You make much at Martin’s?” he called out, smiling a little when Connor’s silhouette froze in place. He was wrestling with a shirt, his arms caught in the sleeves like a straight jacket. 

Connor shook his head. “No,” he mumbled, shrugging the shirt over his head. “He didn’t really pay me.”

Hank hummed. “They not big tippers over there?”

“You have to have an audience to get tips,” Connor said ruefully, peeking his head out from behind the screen. His hair was a mess, mussed around his eyes in a way that made him look oh so innocent. He pursed his pretty lips and slinked out into the open. “How’s this?”  

How’s this? God, the kid really had no idea what he looked like. The shirt was form fitting and flattering in all the right ways, the neckline low and the cut cinched around his hips to show off just how slender he really was. He held a waistcoat in his hand, almost as if he hadn’t been sure whether or not he should wear it too, and Hank could already tell that with it on Connor would make the epitome of what a crooner should be. 

Of course, he didn’t just tell him that. Hank sank into his seat and rested his head on his propped up hand, gesturing with the other for Connor to come closer. “My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be,” he lied, spreading his legs a bit wider in an obvious command for Connor to stand between them. “Gonna have to come here.”

Connor frowned. His cheeks darkened, the color going so beautifully with the dark blue of the shirt he wore now. He kept his eyes on the floor as he did as he was told, blushing darker and darker with every step he took. By the time he was standing between Hank’s legs, he was as pink as a strawberry. 

Hank made a big show of looking him up and down. He lifted his head and took Connor by the hip, turning him until he did a little spin to show him the outfit from every angle. “Looks pretty good on you, he said, staring intently at Connor’s perky ass while it faced him. “Try the waistcoat with it.”

“I think it’s a little much…” he mumbled, doing as he was told anyway. He slipped his arms through the garment and pulled it on, back facing Hank as he did up the front buttons. It sat a little loose on him. Hank reached for the adjuster strap nestled in the small of Connor’s back, pulling it taut until it fit him the way it was meant to. God, the kid had such a pretty waist. Tapered and cinched, absolutely perfect…

Connor let out a little squeak. He twisted around, eyes wide, and said, “What are you doing?” when Hank gave in to the urge to wrap his hands around his waist. They nearly spanned it perfectly. 

“Oh, you know,” Hank muttered, dragging Connor back until he fell into his lap. “Just seeing how much I need to feed you ‘til you stop being so scrawny.”

Connor didn’t go easily into his lap. He clearly wasn’t a lapdog. More like a cat being forced into a bath, Hank had to think, since the brat wouldn’t stop tugging and wiggling and twisting. “I’m not scrawny,” he protested, giving up the fight when Hank just tightened his grip on his waist in a way that told him he wasn’t going to wriggle his way free anytime soon. “You’re just… too big,” he mumbled, turning his head away to hide just how much he was blushing. 

“Too big? Now that’s just mean.” Hank bounced Connor on his knee, pulling a muted little sound from him that went straight to Hank’s cock. “You look good like this, Connor. You’re gonna look even better on the center stage in one of my nightclubs.” Or in Hank’s bed. Whichever came first. Hank wasn’t picky. 

Stilling, Connor chanced a glance at him. “What?” he whispered. He drew his hands into his lap, sitting primly and properly in a way that made him look too innocent by far. He probably didn’t want to put his hands on Hank’s thighs or chest. Cute. “Where?”

Hank hooked a hand under Connor’s thigh and dragged him up until he was seated on his lap sideways. No hiding now. “Any of them,” he said, giving Connor another once over. Kid weighed nothing at all on his lap. Like a bundle of feathers. “All of them. I told you, I’m gonna make you a star.”

“But I’ve never performed like that before,” Connor said, face going pale as he thought about it. “What if… You can’t trust me with that. I’ll lose you business.” 

A laugh. “You better not,” Hank replied, drawing his hand up the line of Connor’s spine. He didn’t miss how Connor shivered, how he caught himself leaning into it and shied away like an afterthought. “Hell, I know you won’t. I heard you sing, kid. You’re gonna go far.”

“But—”

Hank wrapped his hand around the back of Connor’s neck, right beneath his hairline. He squeezed. “Say it,” he said, letting a growl bleed into his voice just a little. “Come on. I wanna hear you be cocky. You’re good, kid. Lemme know you know it too.”

Like a switch being flipped, like a song being skipped, Connor froze beneath his hand and went limp. Connor didn’t shy away from his hand this time. He just lowered his head, baring the back of his neck as he twisted his hands in the soft shirt clinging to his flat stomach. His pretty hands with his long, slender fingers. So many ideas for those hands, Hank thought. So many ideas for every other part of him too. 

A pale pink slip of a tongue slipped out to lick at Connor’s lips. “I’m… gonna go far,” he whispered, glancing at Hank to make sure he was doing it right. “You’re gonna make me a star, Hank.”

He was. Hank would. 

They were gonna both do much more than that together too if Hank had any say in things. But later. Small things first. Bigger things later. 

“Good boy,” Hank murmured, stroking his thumb over the delicate line of Connor’s jaw. Soft, soft, soft. He smiled. “You’re gonna do just fine.” 


	3. Chapter 3

It was always nerve-wracking to wait in the wings before going on stage. Connor had performed publicly for years now, ever since he first realized he had a good voice and could do something with it. But… still. The sound of a crowd, no matter how small, never failed to send a bolt of anxiety straight through his heart. 

Of course, it wasn’t subtle. The man next to him sniffed out the weakness like a bloodhound, and suddenly Connor was reminded that this performance carried more weight to it than any of the ones at Martin’s ever had. Could ever have. Connor sucked in a breath. He let it out in a hiss and didn’t begrudge it too much when Hank noticed that too. 

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Hank said, resting one big, heavy hand on Connor’s shoulder. It was almost unsettling how easily he read Connor sometimes. Disconcerting and unbalancing, just like the touch he extended so freely. His fingers curled far enough around to tickle Connor’s shoulder blade. Something in Connor’s stomach clenched at the thought. Hank just smiled. 

“You’ve got too much faith in me,” Connor whispered, doing all he could to tug his shoulder out from beneath that pressure and heat. Hank allowed it, but only just. “I’ll just lose you business.” And then Hank would boot him out of that fancy room in that fancy house, take Martin’s club from him, and leave Connor worse than where he’d begun. Almost as impossible as it was to achieve, Connor knew better than to doubt that Hank would find a way to make it happen. He had an air about him, Connor had noticed, that gave off the impression that he was the sort of man who could get things done. 

Hell, he’d somehow managed to make Connor look the part when he certainly wasn’t, and that was a feat worthy of commendation. The outfits hadn’t stopped at what Hank had bought that first night at his home. They’d kept coming once Hank knew Connor’s exact measurements, each delivery more luxurious than the one before it. This evening found him in a slim-fitted button up, the color wine red and offset by dark fitted trousers. They clung to his legs and ass in a way that should have been uncomfortable, but thanks to the skill of Hank’s tailor managed to feel as comfortable as his loose blue jeans had. Over top of it all he wore a loose, almost silky coat. It was longer than anything he’d ever worn before, stopping just behind his knees at the back. It swished as he was led up the steps towards the stage. 

A whisper almost. Connor tried to focus on it and not the growing thrum of the crowd just ahead, waiting for him like a predator lying in wait for an easy meal. 

He stopped moving. Hank paused just behind him, a wall of heat and intent that didn’t make Connor feel any less nervous. If anything, it added to the worry. Not only did he have a beast in wait ahead, he had one too behind him, boxing him in like he’d done that night in the bedroom— 

_ Stop,  _ Connor told himself, cheeks bleeding heat. He could still feel the phantom shape of Hank’s thumb against his bottom lip if he let himself think too hard on the memory. The weight of it, the meager pressure it had taken to part his lips and… and… 

“Something wrong?” a voice rumbled right against his ear. 

Connor jumped, reeling away from Hank. The man had leaned over to put his mouth against his ear, and there was a smile on his face like he knew what had Connor so nervous all of a sudden. God, this man. He just… He just  _ knew  _ things. Knew far too much for Connor’s sanity, and seemed to pride himself in the fact. 

Wrapping his arms around his body didn’t do enough to hide from that intense gaze. Connor curled his fingers around his biceps, eyes locked on the floor. The club was nice. Far nicer than anything he’d ever performed in before. Hell, he’d never even set foot in a building this nice before for any reason, let alone for a performance. Connor chewed bitterly on the inside of his cheek, shrugging his shoulders when he didn’t feel Hank’s gaze leave him. The man wanted an answer. It was just his poor luck that any answer he had to offer wouldn’t assuage Hank’s need to put him on display. 

_ “I’m going to make you a star,”  _ Hank had said. Kept on saying in that voice that made Connor want to believe him, to just… to just throw his hands in the air and let Hank take the reins. When Hank said things, it made Connor want to listen. To trust him. To just… give in. 

“You’re making a mistake,” he said anyway, shoving those feelings into the place he stored all the things he never wanted to think about again. It wasn’t a good system. That place had a lid that never seemed to fit tightly enough, giving way to the thoughts in the dead of night when sleep wouldn’t come and… and thoughts just… rose up, burning with a heat he didn’t know how to combat, with urges he wasn’t sure how to satisfy. Connor lifted his chin, swallowing it down for the moment’s reprieve he knew it’d be. “I… just want you to know that. You’re making a mistake with me.”

Hank raised a brow, crossing his arms. It was a mirror of Connor’s current pose but somehow he managed to wear it so much better, his suit tailored to perfection and clinging to his strong form in a way that emanated power when Connor only managed to showcase his vulnerability.  

“Is that so?”

Connor nodded. “Yes,” he added for good measure, because with a man like Hank Anderson every little bit counted. 

Hank shifted his weight forward, managing to loom without truly looming. Sometimes it was so hard to remember that they were only a handful of inches apart in height. Hank was… big. Big in every sense, and it really wasn’t fair at all. The man quirked a smile. “I don’t make mistakes, Connor,” he said, sure as anything. “I heard you sing once. If you’re half as good now as you were in that shithole at Martin’s, I’ll be ecstatic.”

“Somehow that doesn’t manage to comfort me,” he mumbled, glancing towards the stage. He’d caught sight of the audience on his way in. This certainly wasn’t Martin’s. The entire house was full, every single table filled to bursting with fancy people in fancy outfits drinking and eating fancy things. Connor… wasn’t fancy. He was the opposite of fancy, and you could dress him up like a doll but it wouldn’t change that. 

A grunt came from Hank, pensive and deep. Connor didn’t bother looking at him. He had bigger things to worry about, and even Hank coming closer didn’t warrant the energy it’d take to break away from his staring contest with the empty stage to take him in. How much would it cost Hank when this crowd of highbrow people all demanded their money back? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? 

“I think I know how to calm you down,” came a warm, amber-dark voice in Connor’s ear. Warm breath tickled his skin. Connor inhaled sharply, stilling like a deer when an enormous hand caught him by the chin and turned his head away from the stage. 

Hank grinned. “Wanna know what it is?”

Connor licked at his lips, viscerally aware of how close Hank’s fingers were to his mouth. Of how close  _ Hank  _ was to him in general. He fought a shiver of  _ something  _ and settled on nodding. “What is it, Hank?” he asked quietly, saying the words he knew Hank wanted to hear. He’d learned a lot about what Hank liked over the course of this little arrangement of theirs. 

Everything he learned couldn’t prepare him for Hank eschewing an answer entirely, though. Connor had enough time for his eyes to go wide when Hank dipped down, dragging Connor up by the chin to meet him halfway in a kiss. Connor immediately grabbed for Hank’s shoulders. He stifled a gasp as Hank’s beard scratched at his chin and cheeks. His lips positively burned beneath the ones pressed against them. 

Connor had been kissed before. Once or twice, here and there. There’d been admirers growing up, and then a few people he’d fooled around with when he felt the urge come over him. Somehow… Somehow that experience paled in comparison to Hank. It didn’t feel like it was enough to give him his bearings when caught in a kiss like this. Maybe that was because Hank was just an unsettling person, hellbent on destabilizing him at every turn. He made it look so easy when he did it with a big hand against the small of Connor’s back or the brush of his knuckles against his cheek. 

Hank’s tongue tickled the seam of Connor’s lips. Connor whimpered deep in his chest, his knees shaking beneath him. He clutched weakly at Hank’s arms, and Hank saw fit to break the kiss then, his chuckle just a ghost of hot, humid breath against the overly sensitive plane of Connor’s cheekbone. 

“For luck,” Hank whispered before pulling away. Connor stared at him in complete shock, lips still parted, body locked up like a statue. Hank snorted at the sight, rolling his eyes. He gripped Connor by the shoulder and swung him around to face the stage. “Get going,” he said, pressing one last whiskery kiss to Connor’s cheek. “You’ll knock them all dead.”

Then, he pushed, and Connor didn’t have a chance to worry any longer. He was on the stage now, the spotlights searing and the band already in place at the far end of the stage. Connor lifted a hand to shield his eyes, wincing when the lights shifted to follow him. 

He sucked in a sharp breath of air, the panic clawing at his throat with a vengeance. There was nowhere to go now but forward. The microphone was just ahead, waiting for him like a long lost friend. Connor’s skin burned. His lips ached. He tried to focus on that instead of his hammering heart. Just a few more steps. He could do this. He was already halfway there. 

A calm washed over him as he took center stage. From Hank’s kiss or just the stress, he couldn’t possibly begin to tell. Maybe both. Maybe neither. His head was a mess, but he didn’t need to think to know how to get on with the show. He’d performed sick before. He’d sung full sets while strung out on a fever so strong he’d fainted the second he left the stage. He could do this. He could do this in his sleep if he needed to, so long as he let instinct take over.

He gripped the microphone tightly in his hand. The club fell silent; that was so strange. In Martin’s club he’d be lucky to get a glance. On good days he might even see them lower their voices, but this… attention. That was something very, very new. 

He bit down on his bottom lip. “Um, hello. Good evening.” He tried to see past the bright spotlight, seeking out a shape he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to see when he already felt like puking beneath the scrutiny on him now. “My name is Connor Arkay. I’ll be performing a few songs for you tonight.” 

Connor paused there. He licked at his lips. Sometimes when he announced himself, he got jeers in response. Drunkards too far gone to keep their mouths in check, usually, but here… His cheeks went pink when all that rose up in the wake of his words were smatterings of polite applause. The eyes watched him attentively. Like they were… Like they wanted to hear him sing. 

So strange. So goddamn strange. Connor sucked in a breath and startled a little when the music began to play from what sounded like all around him. The spotlights grew brighter, shifting to frame him on both sides. The eyes of the audience faded in some spots. Connor cast his gaze out into the crowd one last time, only spotting Hank when the intro faded away and gave way to his cue to begin. 

Hank wasn’t sitting in the front row or the second. He was towards the back, tucked into a booth on his own off of one of the eaves that seemed close to one of the halls that probably led to the stage itself. A drink lingered in his hand and his eyes met Connor’s easily. He raised his glass of amber liquid, a handsome smirk quirking his lips. Connor sucked in a harsh breath of air. His cheeks burned hotter than the spotlights, and then he began to sing. 

The song wasn’t anything special. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t sang before. Connor had prepared two dozen or so songs during his time at Martin’s club, and he’d told Hank from the moment he insisted on him performing at this high profile club that he wanted to sing something he was comfortable with. When every other aspect of the situation was uncomfortable, the song needed to at least be something he felt good about. So, he picked one of his favorites. Something slinky, something with rhythm. It was a swing-beat, and the live band behind him brought a life to the piece that he’d never felt in the old, crackly speakers he’d always had accompanying him at Martin’s. 

Connor pressed his body against the microphone stand. He pressed the line of his thigh against the cold metal, kissing the textured mouthpiece. The words on his tongue slinked across his palate like the whiskey he rarely got to drink. They echoed in his chest, then in the air. Connor closed his eyes and surrendered to the lyrics he knew by heart. The fear faded in the wake of rote memory, in the familiarity of a song he’d had burnt into his very bones by the struggles he’d lived through and the problems that never ceased plaguing him at every turn. 

In the blink of an eye, the music began to fade. The last warbling note fell past his lips, clipped at the precise moment it needed to end. Connor sucked in a breath and turned his face away from the microphone, catching his breath as thunderous applause rose up in the silence that followed. His shoulders hitched at the sound. He slowly turned to face the crowd. 

The lights dimmed. Faces came into focus. People were on their feet now, hands still clapping, eyes still glistening. A few women pulled flowers from the vases decorating the center of each table, throwing them towards the stage. One fell at Connor’s feet. Brilliant red, blood against the aged oak. 

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Connor inhaled, exhaled. Adrenaline rolled through his veins. He curled his fingers into fists.  _ Oh.  _

Something heavy and firm clapped him on the shoulder, breaking him from the reverie. Connor startled, gasped. He looked up and saw Hank at his side as if by magic, though it was clear the man had been waiting for this moment from his seat. Hank’s eyes practically gleamed beneath the spotlights. He dragged Connor back up to the microphone, but took it in his own hand to announce to the crowd, “Pipes like an angel, right? Let’s give a warm welcome to our newest main talent, Connor Arkay!” 

“Hank,” Connor whispered, hiding his face in Hank’s shoulder. More applause. More thunderous applause, and through it all came cries of  _ Encore! Encore!  _ Connor had never been asked for an encore. Even at his most popular, he was only ever tolerated for a song or two. His audiences only ever came out to drink and forget. They didn’t have the time or care for music in their lives. But these people. This club. 

“Let’s give the kid a break before his next performance,” Hank said, pulling groans of disappointment from the crowd. His arm snaked its way over Connor’s shoulders, heavy and warm, and tightened until he was flush against the gangster’s side. “Come on, kid,” Hank whispered, tugging him off the stage. “You did good.”

The spotlights faded as they slipped off the stage and into the wings. Connor shook from residual energy, blood pounding in his ears. He clutched Hank’s sleeve, nearly tripping over his own feet. The sound of the applause echoed in his ears like the ringing of a percussive drum.  _ Encore! Encore! _

“They’ve never asked me to keep singing, before” Connor whispered, lips dry, mouth parched. 

Hank looked down at him, letting go as he grinned wide enough to crinkle his eyes. Connor’s heart thudded in his chest at the sight. “That’s the perk of being mine, kid,” he said, curling his hand around the back of Connor’s neck to tangle in the hair at his nape. He leaned down, putting his lips to Connor’s ear. “They’ll never get tired of you, and neither will I. Lemme buy you a drink, song bird.”

Connor shivered even though sweat coated his skin. His breath left him in a weak hiss. The pressure on his neck was grounding, but also unsettling. The floor fractured beneath his feet. He managed a nod. When Hank did these things so easily, it was all Connor could do to keep up.

If he squeezed harder, pressed down more… What would he do? A searing heat followed the path of Hank’s thumb as he stroked a line behind Connor’s ear. If Hank wanted more, would he even want to turn away?

A ripple of heat rolled down Connor’s spine at the thought, chased by a shiver of cold when the hand left his skin. He watched Hank disappear into the crowd, proud and confused in equal measure. 

Whatever it was he was feeling, he wasn’t sure he liked it. 

But then again, he wasn’t sure he didn’t either. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes for this chapter! i changed some tags so please keep those new ones in mind for the rest of this fic. i initially put dubcon on there because i wasnt sure how the fic was gonna end up (writing it as you go leaves a lot of room for surprises) but i ended up not going that route. theres no dubconnish elements to any of the smut to follow, so proceed as you will. i also have trans connor in this as well, something i had figured i was going to do about halfway through the fic. i use terms like dick/cock for connor's anatomy, so if that bothers you, dont feel like you gotta read it. 
> 
> special thanks go to rox and bio over on twitter for reading over this for me! enjoy!

The sound of a pen scratching away was the loudest thing in the room when Connor peeked his head inside Hank’s office. It stopped right after, but that was fine. Connor wanted Hank’s attention anyway.

Life had taken off since the night of his first performance. A dozen followed in quick succession, the spotlight seared against the backs of Connor’s eyes every time he dared blink. So many standing ovations. So many encores. Flowers filled his borrowed room. Hank would tell him there was no need to keep them, that he’d buy him more if he liked them so much, but… 

Connor sank his teeth into his bottom lip as Hank lifted his grizzled head. There was something about flowers from the stage that made them worth more than just any old flowers. The memories soaked into the petals added worth, but then again, maybe Connor was just being romantic. 

“Hey there,” Hank said when a few seconds passed by without Connor managing anything on his own. Hank blinked tiredly and looked up at a clock mounted on the wall. He sat back in his seat, stretching his arms above his head. “It’s a bit late for you, isn’t it?”

Connor shrugged, slipping around the door with his hand rooted to his arm. He wasn’t cold, and the majority of his nervousness around Hank had faded somewhere along the way. The good luck kisses helped, and even when they didn’t, exposure to the man’s overwhelming aura did the rest. He looked at Hank now with half-lidded eyes, taking in the way the low light flickered in playful shadows over the lines in Hank’s face. Hank sat motionless while the light granted him life regardless. Connor swallowed and tried for a smile. His heart thudded in his chest painfully at the sight. 

“Just thought I’d check on you,” Connor finally said, moving towards the window that overlooked the city below. They were so far from it now, carried up high and away from its glittering lights. He tore his eyes from it slowly to glance over his shoulder. Hank hadn’t moved. “You didn’t come to my performance tonight.”

Hank leaned back in his seat, arms draped heavily on the armrests at his side. He rolled his head on his shoulder, a single brow quirked curiously. “Did you miss me?” he asked simply. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Connor faced forward, the darkness outside a much safer thing to look at. His cheeks were warm, but not burning. Progress, he had to think. It’d taken its sweet time to come around, but here it was, right when he needed it most. He held himself loosely; to do anything more would give himself away. He kept his breathing even. 

He licked at his lips and said, “Maybe.”

Silence followed the pronouncement. Hank’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. In the reflection of the dark glass, Connor could see how Hank was turned towards him, watching him now like he was the only thing worth looking at in the entire room. He’d missed his performance, but in a sense it almost felt like Connor hadn’t truly performed yet. It only counted when Hank was watching, Connor realized in that moment. Nothing mattered when he wasn’t there seeing Connor shine. 

“Some things came up,” Hank said after a few measures of nothing on either of their parts. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. One-two-three, one-two-three. A triplet note that synced up messily with Connor’s rabbit-heart. “I figured you could handle it on your own.” 

Connor had. He’d handled it fine. It’d thrown him off a little that Hank wasn’t there to guide him on stage, to announce him like he always did with that massive hand on his hip and that rough, tempestuous mouth against his own, ruining his composure before the opening notes of his song brought it all crashing back again a moment later. Connor… hadn’t  _ needed  _ Hank there.

But he’d wanted him there. He’d wanted him there so much he’d practically raced off the stage the moment he could to search the crowd for a face he’d been disappointed to find missing entirely. 

It had taken Connor most of the night to figure out why that was, and even now, hours later, he wasn’t sure he had figured it out. He turned slowly on his heel, facing Hank partially. He loosened his hold on his arms. He stared at Hank as Hank stared at him. The backdrop of the night outside was his curtain. The distance between them was Connor’s stage. 

“I handled it fine,” Connor said. He knew how to perform. He knew what was expected of him, what he expected of himself. 

“Then what’s the problem?”

He took a step towards Hank, letting his hands fall to his sides. Hank eyed him carefully, the makings of a smile teasing his cruelly generous mouth. “The problem,” Connor said as he approached the desk, “is that I didn’t like it.”

Hank looked up at him, spinning idly in his chair. His big legs were spread a bit, his posture tall yet still relaxed. With him as big as he was, he took up too much space no matter how he held himself. The inklings of a smile blossomed into full force. He grinned like he knew. Like he  _ knew  _ what Connor was feeling better than he knew himself. 

“You didn’t like it,” Hank repeated slowly, stroking down his beard lazily. He looked Connor up and down. “The stardom’s gone to your head, kid. You’re already turning into a diva.”

Connor frowned. “That’s not—” 

Hank twisted his chair around, facing away from Connor to bring himself back to the papers on his desk. He picked up his pen with a sigh. “Go to bed, Connor,” he said with a note of finality that made the bottom drop out of Connor’s stomach. “It’s past your bedtime anyway.”

Something… built in the base of Connor’s throat. It stuck and dripped, burned like acid but was as sweet as wine. He sucked in a breath, then let it out in a rush. With startling clarity, he realized one important thing; this wasn’t a dismissal. 

It was a game.

Connor couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. He felt his feet move, carrying him forward. Hank lifted his head and turned, lips already curled, eyes already dancing— Connor grabbed Hank’s collar. He tugged as hard as he could until he knew he had Hank’s attention solely on him. Licking at his lips, he sucked in a breath. “Take me seriously,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even when it wanted nothing more than to crack. “I… I need you to take me seriously.” 

His eyes widened when Hank covered his hand with one of his own. Connor’s mouth went dry. There was something so… so unavoidably earth-shattering to see just how small his hand was when enveloped by Hank’s. Hell, compared to Hank, Connor was as good as a toothpick. He tried to pull away, to let go to Hank’s collar. This was clearly a mistake— 

But Hank’s hand held tight. “That’s what you want?” Hank asked, reeling Connor in like a kite on a string. Closer and closer and closer still until Connor was nose to nose with the mob boss. His knees brushed the edge of Hank’s seat. Hank’s free hand seized Connor by the hip, jerking him into his lap without warning. Connor yelped. Hank smirked, his voice a low growl as he crooned in Connor’s ear, “You really think you can handle me taking you seriously?”

“Yes,” Connor breathed, his voice just a rasp that felt a far cry from one of his croons. He was assaulted on all sides with walls of firm muscle, by waves of unyielding heat. He curled his fingers into the fabric covering Hank’s chest. The heat of him there burned through him all the faster; the shirt was thin after all. They weren’t wearing enough to keep from feeling each other deeper than they’d ever touched before. 

Hank’s hands settled on his ass, then moved lower, wrapping his fingers around Connor’s thighs. He squeezed tight, greedy and presumptuous all in one. “Oh, kid,” he purred—a lion more than anything benign—”you’ve got no idea what I’ve been wanting to do to you.”

Connor could imagine. He hadn’t stopped imagining it since the first time he’d tasted Hank’s finger against his tongue. These hot, heavy hands, this firm, strong body— “Please,” he begged, rocking his burning heat against Hank’s gut. God, he was already so wet and sticky inside his pants. If he looked down now, he was terrified he might see a wet spot staining the olive green of Hank’s shirt. “God, Hank—!” 

The sensation of being lifted was one Connor couldn’t say he was familiar with, and Hank, strong as he was, didn’t seem keen on letting him get used to it before it ended completely. His ass met the desk with a thump, and then Hank was spreading his thighs. He towered over Connor, looming like the imposing force he was. Connor tried not to whimper. He tried his damnedest not to back away when he already knew there was nowhere to run. He’d come to this room wanting something like this to happen anyway. Now that it was happening, he couldn’t just back out now. 

“We need to feed you more,” Hank rumbled, his voice like a peal of thunder dead set on rattling Connor down to his foundations. His big hand settled on Connor’s thigh, squeezing like he was sizing him up. Cool blue eyes stared at him hard. “You weigh about as much as a pillow.”

His cheeks burned. Connor licked at his lips, fighting to summon up a retort. Hank was making it progressively more and more difficult though. His hand kept inching higher, and that was absolutely hell on his thought process. “Does that bother you?” he whispered, shivering despite the heat coming off Hank’s massive body. 

Hank grinned, dipping down to press a whiskery kiss to his cheek. “Nah,” he said, a laugh coloring his deep voice. “I like that I can throw you around however I want.”

This was the worst. Hands down, this was probably the stupidest idea Connor had ever had. He let out a whimper despite his best attempts to swallow it down, the noise loud and embarrassing in the quiet of the room. Hank was laughing at him, his big hands moving from his legs up to his waist, slipping beneath his shirt with all the confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted. His hands were so  _ warm.  _ Connor’s thighs twitched. He fisted his hands in the too-long fabric of his sleeves. 

“Don’t tease me, Hank,” he pleaded, closing his eyes when he realized Hank could span his waist with his hands easily. He yelped when Hank yanked him forward, the crotch of his jeans pressed tightly to Hank’s bulge. He stared up at the gangster holding him in place, eyes wide, lips parted. 

“We’re well past teasing, kid,” Hank growled, rolling against him with unmistakable intent. “Best you hold on tight.”

Hold on tight? To what? Connor scrambled to grab Hank’s forearms, his eyes fluttering when Hank grinded against him. The rough drag of denim was nearly too much— but still, not enough. Not even close to enough. Connor wriggled and writhed, locking his legs around Hank’s hips to drag him closer. 

That got him a laugh from Hank, and, given how close they were now, Connor could feel every rumbly second of it play out against his overly sensitized body. Hank backed up a little, running a hand down Connor’s chest. “You’re an ornery one, aren’t you?” he figured, slipping his fingers beneath the hem of Connor’s sweater to touch the smooth skin of his stomach. “I haven’t even gotten you naked yet.” 

Connor blushed messily. He turned his face away, shivering as Hank’s big, calloused hand moved higher. The fingers brushed over his navel, then just a bit higher to tease the edge of his binder. Hank paused then with his brow furrowed. Connor chanced a look in his direction, just in time to see realization roll over him. Hank’s hand didn’t… retract. It just paused. Everything paused. 

“Can I touch you here?” Hank asked evenly, just stroking his fingers over the edge of the binder and no higher. 

Swallowing, Connor let out a rough breath. His stomach twitched with nerves. “Just on top,” he whispered, keeping his face pointed towards the wall. “Please,” he added even softer. 

Instead of a reply, Hank dipped his head and chased Connor’s lips until they met his own. Connor whimpered softly, parting them as the kiss deepened. Hank’s mouth was so warm, so wet. He knew how to kiss and it showed in every ragged sound he pulled from Connor with no visible effort on his part. The hand beneath his shirt began to move again, drifting higher to cup Connor through his binder. The big, burning swipe of his thumb over his nipple pulled an even louder sound free from Connor’s chest.

Hank let out another one of his strange, throaty purrs at the sound. “Sensitive,” he remarked, his tongue still partially inside Connor’s mouth. “I like that.”

“You would,” Connor tried to retort, but he’d made the poor decision of speaking while Hank’s hand was still under his shirt. It came out garbled with another moan, breathless and wanton already. And that? That wasn’t fair at all. They’d barely done anything and here he was, wet in his jeans and already halfway to losing it completely. 

He’d been a fool to forget Hank had two hands at his disposal. The other made itself known a second later, cupping Connor through his pants. “Don’t get uppity now, kid,” Hank said over the sound of Connor’s broken whine. He rocked his hand, dragging the fabric over Connor’s dick. “Not when you like it too.”

Connor couldn’t even manage a reply to that. Hell, he couldn’t stop shivering either. He wriggled on the desk and arched into Hank’s palm, riding the hand for everything he was worth. Hank was laughing again, but that didn’t matter much. Connor liked the sound of it too much to protest it, even if he was the one making it happen. He grabbed for Hank’s wrist instead, holding his hand to his chest desperately. Every part of Hank burned like fire. What he wouldn’t give to feel it against his bare skin. 

“God, just look at you,” came that low, gravelly voice. Connor cracked open an eye, shocked to see Hank bearing down on him like something hungry and feral. His blue eyes were wide and dilated, his mouth parted to make way for his heavy, hot breaths. He smiled when he saw Connor looking at him. He dipped down for another wet, searching kiss. Their foreheads brushed and Connor didn’t close his eyes. When Hank backed off, he didn’t go far. He lingered there, staring into Connor’s eyes. 

The hand between his legs disappeared, resurfacing against Connor’s cheek. “I want to fuck you,” Hank said before Connor could summon up the willpower to protest the lack of stimulation. Which was fine. Really, it was. Hank’s breath was a distraction all its own, and when he whispered, “Can I?” Connor lost the ability to care. At all. About anything. 

Hank pulled back a scant inch. His brow furrowed. “Connor?”

Connor jolted. “Yes, yes,” he rushed, nodding so hard that he nearly clipped Hank’s nose with his head. He arched and shifted beneath Hank’s chest, his clothes so oppressively stifling against his skin. “Please, Hank. Do it, please.”

Hank just raised a brow. “Have you done it before?”

Connor stilled at that. He swallowed, fighting with himself to look Hank in the eye. He licked at his lips, noting how Hank’s eyes followed the movement intently. God, he really wanted him. He’d known from the moment they met that he did, but to see it like this, up close… “Some,” he whispered, shrugging a little. “Enough that I know what I’m doing.”  _ With other people,  _ he added silently. He never knew what he was doing with Hank, but that didn’t keep him from wanting it anyway. 

“Uh huh. Alright.” Hank pulled back a little, pulling his hand out from beneath Connor’s shirt. He left the sweater rucked up under his arms though, his eyes trained on Connor’s twitching stomach. His fingers settled on the button on Connor’s jeans next. “God, you’re something. Absolutely gorgeous.”

The praise was somehow a worse tease than Hank pulling his pants from his legs. Connor shifted and drew his knees together, blushing all the more when he felt just how wet he’d gotten already. He’d soaked through his boxers, the cool slickness teasing his inner thighs. Hank’s burning hands settled on the waistband of them next. Connor jerked his head up, looking at Hank. Hank tilted his head to the side. Connor nodded, answering the unspoken question hovering in the air between them. 

Off came the boxers. Hank dragged them down with reverent care, eyes locked on Connor’s until they slipped past his ankles and joined his jeans on the floor. Only then did Hank let his eyes fall, settling between Connor’s spread legs. Connor’s heartbeat pounded between his ears, hot and heavy and in time to the throbbing between his legs. He longed to close them, to rub and soothe the ache he’d been fighting with ever since Hank first deigned to touch him. He sucked in a bracing lungful of air. He fell back against the desk and told himself to be patient. 

He didn’t have to wait long with Hank just as pent up as he was. The sound of a zipper cut through the quiet like a knife through butter. Connor stiffened, refusing to lift his head. The shifting of fabric came next, then the hot press of Hank’s bare, hairy thighs against Connor’s. Connor whimpered when Hank drifted his big hand over his aching heat. One finger slipped inside, and it took more than what Connor currently had in him to keep himself from clenching down around it in search of more. 

“Hank,” Connor moaned, dragging out his name like a prayer. He gave in and lifted his head, nearly dropping back down when he saw Hank’s erection resting against his thigh. It was… Oh, Jesus. “You’re not going to fit,” he wheezed, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, God. You won’t.”

“Don’t punk out on me now, Con,” came the only reply. Another finger slipped in alongside the first, sending a shivering, aching feeling straight through Connor’s frame. He writhed and bucked, fighting as hard as he could to fuck himself since Hank was taking his time. God, he wasn’t going to fit. There was no way that massive fucking cock was going to fit, but every part of Connor’s being told him he wanted to try anyway. 

The fingers disappeared. Connor sucked on his tongue and readied himself to complain, but found himself cut off by the feeling of something hot, heavy, and big brushing against his dick instead. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” Hank growled, rubbing the thick head of his cock against the lips of Connor’s entrance. Thick, sticky strands of slick stuck to him messily, only proving his point. Connor tossed a hand over his face, hiding his eyes when he couldn’t hide the rest of himself. Even if he could, he had a feeling Hank wouldn’t let him get away with it for long. 

He was right. Hank grabbed for his wrist and pinned it to the desk beside his head. He leaned over Connor and kissed him deep enough to steal the breath from his lungs. Connor clung with his other hand to Hank’s shoulder. The man was still fully dressed. It wasn’t fair, but there was no time to complain when he pressed forward and slipped the head of his cock inside. 

Too big, too big,  _ not enough.  _ Connor didn’t have the breath to cry out, so all he managed was a broken, choked grunt. Hank hissed out something between his teeth— Connor couldn’t tell what. Saliva spilled past his lips and dripped down his chin. Hank moved forward an inch and Connor resigned himself to dying on Hank’s cock. 

“So good, baby,” Hank hissed next, right in Connor’s ear. He let go of Connor’s wrist to grip his hips instead, bruising him with the firmness of his grip. He used that grip to drag Connor onto him even more, sheathing himself inch by inch until the bristly, wiry kiss of hair brushed against Connor’s aching dick. Connor stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Hank pressed more kisses to his cheek and neck. The burn of his beard was a startling contrast to the heat devouring him everywhere else. 

“H-Hank,” he cried, grabbing his own chest with his newly freed hand to stroke and roll his nipples. He clenched around the cock inside him, and Hank let out a groan next, pulling out just to slam back in half a second later. Connor slid forward on the desk, books, papers, and pens littering the ground like hail. Connor wrapped his legs around Hank’s waist. He needed to hold on. He was going to fall off the desk if he didn’t. 

“That’s right, baby,” Hank kept moaning, deep and debilitating in Connor’s ear. “So good, so tight. You feel good? God, you’re so wet for me.” 

“Hank, Hank.” There was nothing else to say, nothing more he could even think to say when white was already teasing him behind his eyes. Hank’s pace was increasing, the desk thudding and jolting as it fought to stay put on the floor. He clawed at Hank’s shoulders, at his back. His hips kept twisting, rocking back to meet every thrust. He clenched once, twice— 

“Hank, I— I’m—!” he groaned, his orgasm washing over him. He sucked in air as quickly as he could, every thrust from Hank punching it right back out again. He fell onto the desk in a weak, limp pile. Hank just gripped him all the tighter and moved for him, fucking into him like Connor was a cocksleeve made just for him.  

The stimulation followed Connor through the white haze in his head. Through the curtain of his lashes, he saw Hank above him, sweating, panting, red faced and wild eyed as he bucked harder. Connor shivered and then moaned as Hank threw back his head. A flood of heat shot inside him. When Hank kept thrusting, every outward pull carried with it another burst of hot, wet release. 

_ He came inside me,  _ Connor thought hazily. He craned his neck to watch, barely believing what he could clearly see.  _ He came inside me. I’m his now.  _

It was too much to take after being fucked like an animal. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Hank grunted, swearing like a sailor as he hovered over Connor to catch his breath. Flecks of his sweat rained down on Connor in cool little drops, adding to the mess they’d made. Connor couldn’t stop staring at Hank’s crotch, at where they were still connected. Translucent white flecks of slick matted the hair on Connor’s mound, around Hank’s dick. They were so… so fucking wet with it—

Connor let out a weak cry as Hank pulled out. It left an even stickier trail against Connor’s thigh. God. Even softening Hank was massive. Connor let his head thunk against the desk as his body gave up all pretenses of awareness. His thighs quivered beneath Hank’s hands. He was making an absolute mess of Hank’s papers and desk, but it’d take a stronger force than any he knew of to make him care enough to move. 

Well, maybe it would just take Hank gathering him up in his arms and peeling him off the wood himself. When it came down to it, that was pretty much the same thing anyway. Connor groaned weakly as Hank sat them both down in his chair, his legs tossed over Hank’s thighs and his head pillowed on Hank’s shoulder. He was probably making a mess of Hank now instead of just his desk. Oh well. Sometimes there were casualties in things like this. 

They sat like that for a while as the clock in the corner of the room ticked and tocked the night away. Connor sagged heavily into Hank’s warmth. He could fall asleep like this if they stayed still much longer. 

“You doing alright?” came a voice that rumbled beneath his ear. The arms holding him tightened, inching Connor up a little higher. 

“Mmm.” Words were hard. Connor was beyond them at this point, and he preferred it that way.

More silence. The clock ticked some more, and Connor slowly blinked out at the window where the lights twinkled and danced in the darkness. Hank’s heartbeat was a comforting accompaniment to it all. One-two, one-two, one-two—

“You know,” came that voice again, lower and a bit more mischievous. “If you sing like that every night, you’ll go places before you know it,” Hank said, pressing a kiss to Connor’s flushed cheek. 

Connor smacked his arm without much force or heat. He mumbled, “That’s embarrassing.”

“Still true,” came the quiet laugh. Hank leaned back in his chair, in no hurry or rush to get up, clean off, and leave Connor to his own devices. “I told you before, kid. I’m gonna make you a star.”

A warm weight settled at the base of Connor’s spine. Hank’s hand, he realized. It stayed put, Hank’s thumb slowly sweeping along the bare skin he found there, soothing and rhythmic and reassuring. Connor closed his eyes. Hank’s hands were so… 

The arms around him shifted, bouncing him just a little. “What, not gonna argue with me this time?” Hank let out a quiet little snort. “Did I seriously fuck all the fight out of you?”

“No,” Connor whispered, resting his hand on Hank’s stomach. He closed his fingers around the fabric, clinging to it loosely. He lifted his head, meeting Hank’s eyes. A smile found its way to his lips. “Just the doubt, is all.” 

**Author's Note:**

> lol hope yall liked that. check me out on twitter for more dbh funtimes @tdcloud_writes and online for my original work (which i think yall would like! i do gay romance+erotica!). leave a comment if you liked this and are interested in seeing more! until next time!


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